


The Haunting of Shadow Wood House

by twitchbell



Category: Top Gear (UK)
Genre: Dream Sequence, First Time, M/M, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchbell/pseuds/twitchbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Halloween night in a haunted house, and Richard has a disturbing dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haunting of Shadow Wood House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zortified (james)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



"And on that bombshell, we come to the end of our Halloween special. Goodnight!"

Jeremy rubbed his hands, clearly in a very good mood as the cameras stopped rolling. "That went well."

"Apart from you breaking down in nervous giggles," James qualified.

"That, May, was knowing laughter. I knew all along it was the Stig behind the curtains."

"Of course you did." Richard's lips twitched irrepressibly at James, who smirked in response. Jeremy threw a mock glare at them both and then wandered off to issue orders to some of the ground crew who'd made the mistake of standing still for a few seconds.

Richard and James signed a few autographs and then, as the audience was encouraged to leave, found a wall where they didn't seem to be in anybody's way and mooched up against it. There had only been a small studio audience tonight, and an equally small crew filming this late evening shoot, and it wasn't taking long for everyone to leave; no doubt they were all keen to get back to their homes and families. Both recently, if amicably, divorced, neither Richard nor Jeremy had any reason to rush back to their respective bachelor pads; James' girlfriend was at a party with her friends and had been quite happy for him to spend the night elsewhere.

Having got the hall cleared to his satisfaction, Jeremy was now overseeing the unloading of their sleeping bags and rucksacks.

"James, are you sure us staying here is a good idea?" Richard had to ask the question; it had been buzzing around his brain ever since the filming had wrapped.

"Hamster, there's no such thing as ghosts." James sounded irritatingly calm.

"Well, yeah, I know, but …"

"But?"

"It's a bloody creepy place, you've got to admit!"

"Well, it isn't very nice now it's dark," James conceded, looking around at the stone walls and gloomy tapestries of the mock-medieval Great Hall.

"And it's not very nice now everyone's going and leaving us alone," Richard pointed out. "Shadow Wood House. Even its _name_ sounds spooky. The National Trust would probably refuse to buy it on those very grounds, you know."

"I don't think the National Trust are quite that shallow, actually."

"And then there's that sodding portrait." Richard scowled up at it in loathing.

"But she _does_ look like you! Her hair's longer, clearly, but she has the same warm chocolate eyes, and –"

"Warm chocolate eyes?" Richard echoed, not quite sure he was hearing right. "Are you taking the piss?"

"He should've said that on camera." Jeremy came back to them. He was looking smug, like a man whose plans were all coming together. "The audience would've loved it."

"Thank God he didn't." Richard shuddered. Too much had been said on camera in his opinion, and all of it at his expense. "I've got enough to live down as it is." He started as all the lights suddenly went out. Then a torch snapped on and a bright beam illuminated Jeremy's grinning features, which would easily have won the award for Bad Sight of the Night if it hadn't been for the Sodding Portrait. "Where've all the lights gone?"

"I got the caretaker to turn the generator off before he left. We can't stay overnight in a haunted house with the electricity lighting it up like a bloody shopping mall. That would be too sissy for words," Jeremy said as if this was a point so obvious he shouldn't have to bother making it.

"Well, you could've warned us," Richard grumbled.

"Why? It was much more fun making you jump."

"You do realise that our mobile phones don't work out here – there's no signal. So if there's an emergency, we're now completely stuffed."

"And what sort of an emergency are you imagining?" Jeremy wanted to know. "Ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties? Blood dripping from the walls? Skeletons leaping out of closets? Zombies marching down the stairs? Maniacs menacing us with chainsaws? Aliens with –"

"All right! That's enough! I was actually thinking of more ordinary stuff, like one of us getting ill."

"Our cars are right outside," James said soothingly. "We can probably outrun the zombies and the skeletons and get to the cars in time. The maniacs with chainsaws might be more of a problem, but I'm sure they'll get Jeremy first because he'll be struggling to get that stupidly long body of his out of the sleeping bag. And then they'll get me, because I don't run. As you're small and speedy, you'll probably be the only survivor."

"And if it's aliens, we'll all die in a single blast from a death ray, so a functioning mobile phone will be of no use anyway," Jeremy added with ghoulish cheerfulness.

"Right, fine." Richard gave up under the onslaught of piss-taking and watched as Jeremy crossed over to the entrance to take an extremely large carrier bag from one of the crew. Then he closed the massive oak door behind the man and slid the heavy bolt across it. It had a very final sound to it. "You're really going for this, aren't you?"

"When I was a boy, I used to dream about spending Halloween night in a haunted house," said Jeremy. "And now I actually can. So I'm going to, just for the hell of it. You can always clear off home if you're scared."

"I'm _not_ scared!"

"Ah, good old reverse psychology," said James, approvingly. "Gets them every time."

"I'm just a little uncomfortable about it. It's that sodding portrait. I mean, to be fair, she _does_ look like me. And that's a little freaky because she's the ghost that's meant to haunt this place and I really, really don't want to wake up and see some wailing, demented female version of myself floating down the stairs towards me."

"Well, none of us wants to wake up and see_ that_," said Jeremy bluntly. "And luckily we won't. Because there aren't any ghosts. Anywhere. Ever."

"Because Jeremy has willed it so, that means every supernatural phenomena ever reported is now all poppycock," said James. "And even if it isn't, we'll protect you, Hamster. I'm feeling quite manly about this."

"Oh good. That's so reassuring."

"For someone who was initially very keen on the idea, you still sound awfully tetchy, Hammond," Jeremy said. "This is supposed to be a fun evening – the three of us gathered together in the near dark, telling ghost stories, having a laugh, drinking –"

"I thought the owners of this place specified no alcohol?" Richard said suspiciously.

"They did, and so I've brought ginger beer." Jeremy produced a bottle and brandished the unlikely beverage around for confirmation. Then he grinned. "That is to say, I brought ginger beer _bottles_, but I've filled them with something with more interesting."

"So, basically, you lied to them."

"Only a little bit." Jeremy didn't look at all embarrassed by this. "Relax – there's not enough here to get any of us completely bladdered. Just enough to help us unwind." He tossed a bottle to Richard, who caught it by reflex. "Starting with you, Teeth."

Richard sighed. "I suppose I am being a bit of an arse."

"No, you're being a total cock," James said, arranging himself as comfortably as possible on his sleeping bag; he ended up lounging like a rather dubious Roman Emperor. " We didn't set it up, you know. The portrait, I mean. Jeremy and I didn't know it existed until we got here tonight."

"Lady Rose Lawrence." Richard squinted up at the portrait through the gloom, and took a long drink from his bottle. "So she really was murdered, and she really does haunt this place – allegedly. You didn't make that up?"

"Nope." Jeremy tossed a bottle at James, took one for himself and then settled cross-legged on the floor. "Are you ready to hear a spooky story?"

"It's why we're here, isn't it?" Richard sat down on his sleeping bag so that they all formed a loose triangle.

Jeremy opened the extremely large carrier bag and with a flourish drew out a pumpkin. Someone had already hollowed it out and carved two eyes and a spiky grinning mouth in the orange shell.

Richard groaned. "Oh, you just had to, didn't you? No known cliché spared."

"Had to make sure we had the right atmosphere." Jeremy grinned and dumped the pumpkin on the floor in the centre. He lit the candle stuck inside the hollow shell and switched off his torch. Now it looked as if they were all gathered around a poor excuse for a bonfire. The hall was going to get cold pretty quickly, Richard thought, now that all the paraphernalia associated with filming had been removed and there were only the three of them left.

"So come on, spill the beans," James said. "You've kept the whole story under wraps, presumably waiting for the very best time put the frighteners on us. This is your big moment."

Jeremy knew it, and obviously intended to make the most of it, because he took a slow, deliberate swallow of beer before settling the bottle back on the floor. He paused dramatically before beginning.

"The year was 1898, the year in which Enzo Ferrari was born and one Henry Lindfield became the first fatality from an automobile accident. Shadow Wood House was bought by Lord James Lawrence, a Victorian entrepreneur who'd made a small fortune in the cloth industry. He moved to the house in the late spring, with his young wife, Rose."

"How young?" Richard asked. The portrait was lost in the darkness now, but he wouldn't have put her age at much more than early twenties.

"Nineteen. Lawrence himself was in his early forties. Not an unusual marriage by Victorian standards. Rose had the aristocratic lineage; he had the money."

"So, not a love match, then." James observed.

"Oh definitely not. At least, not on her part. Anecdotal evidence suggests that Lawrence adored her - adored her to excess, in fact. He was extremely possessive."

"If he was that possessive, frankly I'm amazed she got away from him long enough to ever find a lover." Against his will, Richard's eyes were drawn almost hypnotically to the pumpkin, watching the tiny tongues of flame flicker behind the carved eyes and mouth.

"Ah, well, you see, the lover she took was her husband's colleague, Charles Lewis. And he was just about the last person Lawrence would suspect. Anyway. The murder." Jeremy lowered his voice. "Lawrence was supposed to be away from the House, up at a hunting lodge in Scotland. Lewis and Rose took advantage of this to spend some time together. Little did they know that Lawrence had left the hunting lodge early - bad weather, poor hunting, or just maybe he was getting a little suspicious. Anyway, that dark Halloween night he arrives at the House. He rides through to the stables, waking the stable lad and -"

"The murder, Jez," Richard said impatiently. "Cut to the chase."

"I'm trying to build tension, you bloody philistine."

"You don't need to build tension. I'm quite tense enough, thank you. Just get on with it."

"All right! Well. Lawrence goes up the stairs towards his bedroom - his wife had a separate bedroom. It's late, so he has no intention of disturbing his wife. But then he notices that her light is on, so he opens the door and sees -"

"Young Rose having it off with his best friend, Lewis," James said. Jeremy scowled. "I'm right, though, aren't I?"

"Yes," said Jeremy through gritted teeth. "And at the sight Lawrence loses it completely. He catches hold of the bedside lamp - a heavy thing made of bronze - and smashes it down on Lewis' head and beats him to a pulp with it. Then, for good measure, he puts his hands around Rose's neck and strangles her."

Richard winced.

"Finally, Lawrence takes a gun and shoots himself in the head. Whether it was in a fit of remorse for what he'd done, or because he wanted to avoid the shame of the gallows, no-one ever knew. By the time the servants got to the scene, there were only the three bloody corpses, and they told their own harrowing tale."

"And Rose is supposed to walk the House at night, then?" James said.

" She's been seen many times gliding along the corridors and down the stairs clad in a nightdress drenched in the blood of her murdered lover."

"Great," said Richard in hollow tones, wondering if it was possible for Jeremy's recount to get any more overblown and melodramatic.

Jeremy lowered his voice and proved that it was. "Legend says that her presence is heralded by the faded scent of sweet summer roses, the flower she was named for, and the flower she loved above all others. And her final resting place is in the rose garden she planted and tended with her own hands."

"Oh please!" James spluttered, apparently in danger of choking to death on his beer. "You're starting to sound like you actually believe all that twaddle."

"I already said I don't believe all that twaddle. I'm telling a ghost story, remember? Trying to engender a little appropriate frisson for Halloween, which is the point of us being here in the first place in case you've forgotten." Jeremy was sounding increasingly narked.

"Well, I think it's a tragic story," Richard said. "And if Rose does haunt this place, then I can't say I'm surprised. Not that I want to actually _see_ her doing her haunting, obviously." He felt obliged to add the last in case he was tempting fate.

"Well, I think it's all codswallop and I don't care if she's floating around all night dripping in blood and smelling of roses: I won't see her because I 'm tired and I shall be asleep," James declared, finishing his beer and snuggling into his sleeping bag with the air of a man who will not be moved come hell or high water. "Gentlemen, goodnight."

Jeremy had shrugged off his annoyance with James - it wasn't as if he'd never had any practise at it - and had unrolled his sleeping mat, Now he was staring at it with an expression of deep disapproval. "You know, somehow, I imagined that this would be just a little thicker." He gave the mat a disparaging prod with one finger. "How is this going to make me feel more comfortable?"

"You really didn't think this through, did you?" Richard said.

"No, I did think this through. That's why I requested the sleeping mat. No-one bothered to point out that it would have exactly the same depth of a digestive biscuit." Jeremy draped his sleeping bag onto top of the mat, sat down on them both and pulled a disgruntled face. "This is not good. I think I'll have to use one of the beds."

"Jeremy, this is a stately home," Richard said impatiently. "Those beds are probably historical artefacts."

"They can't _all_ be historical artefacts because the current owners sleep in them when they're here," Jeremy argued.

"Well, you can hardly wander around trying all the beds out for size and historicalness like you're some sort of Goldilocks in the Three Bears' Cottage." Richard didn't intend looking too closely at the analogy he'd just come up with; the notion of Jeremy Clarkson as Goldilocks wasn't one he could contemplate with any composure.

"Watch me."

"No, we're not going to watch you." James yawned. " We're going to sleep. Just remember: if you break it, you pay for it. Hammond and I are entirely innocent of any wrongdoing."

"What he means is, any questions asked and we'll dob you right in it," Richard told Jeremy.

"Oh, I'd expect no less." Jeremy gathered up all his bedding and then took up the torch.

"You can't have that - it's our only torch," Richard objected.

"And whose torch is it? Oh guess what? It's _my_ torch!" Jeremy feigned surprise very badly. " Stop complaining - I'll leave you the pumpkin. Sweet dreams."

\------------

 

_Richard found himself waking abruptly, as if he'd just been kicked back into consciousness. His heart was racing. Fingers shaking, he fumbled for the zip of his sleeping bag and fought his way free of it. Then shivering at the sudden cold, he drew himself up to his knees and found himself staring at the pumpkin. _

The candle had gone out, and the bloody thing looked even more spooky than it had done previously; it was like it was grinning at him, full of hidden secrets it had no intention of sharing. Next to the pumpkin, James was snuggled on his side in a warm cocoon of bedding. He was fast asleep and a cold sheen of moonlight lay on his face, shadowing the familiar features. Richard stared at him, and felt as if a massive fist had reached inside him and wrapped around his heart. He staggered to his feet and stumbled for the stairs.

The moonlight shone fully on the portrait that faced him. Richard stopped and gazed up at it as if he'd never seen it before. The face was luminous in the light; the eyes were dark, distraught, the lips slightly parted. The slender hands seemed to twist convulsively in the voluminous skirts of the silken gown: Richard's own clutched around the oak banister as he climbed up the stairs. He felt sick and dizzy, a sweet flowery scent drifting across his face. Something was terribly, dreadfully wrong, and he needed -

Then there was a light in the darkness, a pale gleam escaping through a half-open door. Richard flung himself towards it in a near panic, and stumbled the final few steps into the room beyond.

Jeremy was curled up in his sleeping bag on top of the four-poster bed, reading by torchlight. Richard's arrival was startling enough to cause him to drop both torch and book.

"What the – fuck!" He began scrabbling around to retrieve the torch. "Hamster? Is that you?"

Richard clutched at the door, and his voice sounded thin in his own ears, as if it came from a long way off. "I had to find you."

"What the hell for? If you're trying to scare me, you bloody well succeeded. For a minute there I thought you were the sodding ghost." Jeremy recovered the torch and flashed it towards the door.

Richard winced, shut his eyes and turned his head away.

"Richard?" Jeremy sounded suddenly uncertain. "What's wrong? Are you ill? Christ, you're shaking…"

Richard couldn't stop shivering, couldn't speak, could only stare dumbly at Jeremy as he unzipped himself out of his sleeping bag and padded clumsily across the floor. And then Jeremy's arms were wrapped around him, and Richard clung to the warm strength of him like a drowning man. His trembling ceased. The cold fled.

Jeremy's exposed skin was hot against his face, the scent of him wonderfully familiar and safe. Need pulsed in Richard like a hammer on anvil. It felt like he belonged, like he'd finally come home. Without conscious thought, he grabbed the back of Jeremy's head and dragged him down into a clumsy, desperate kiss. Jeremy's grip on him tightened. He began kissing back, fuelled by an urgency and hunger that matched Richard's own.

With a thrill of giddy delight, Richard felt Jeremy slowly, relentlessly pull him towards the bed and then push him back onto it. There was nothing soft or gentle about his colleague's hands, but it didn't matter. It was fumbling, frantic lovemaking, with the barest minimum of clothing tugged down or aside so that flesh could press and slide against flesh in an awkward, thrilling gathering of momentum. And afterwards, when Jeremy held him close as if he meant never to let him go, Richard relaxed into the embrace, at peace with himself and with the world, and knew that nothing else mattered.

When he woke again it was too dark to see and he didn't know what had disturbed him, so he lay there blinking and trying to make sense of it all. Pressed against his back, Jeremy was a silent, dead weight and the room seemed suddenly very heavy and ominous. Richard moved his head a fraction and saw the dark shadow of James, silhouetted against the window. He seemed to be holding something.

"James ...?" Richard mumbled. "What are you ... " He shifted in the bed and dislodged Jeremy's grip. Jeremy made no protest - no sound, no gesture - and he lay awkwardly in the position Richard's abrupt movement had shaken him into. Richard couldn't see his face.

"Jeremy?" Richard said shakily and reached out one hand to touch the side of his head. The curls felt wet and sticky, and still Jeremy never moved. Richard looked at James, and now he caught a glimpse of his face. There was a look in his eyes that Richard had never seen before, and Richard became aware of what James was holding: an old-fashioned lamp with a heavy, bronze base.

Richard could see events spreading out before him like some monstrous jigsaw puzzle, but no matter how desperately he tried to slot them into place they didn't quite make a coherent pattern. It was as if two separate puzzles were co-existing, trying to mesh into one. And all the time his brain was making increasingly urgent suggestions about what Richard should do next. 'Run away' seemed to be heading the list, closely followed by 'scream' and 'do something, you bloody imbecile'. But Richard simply wasn't able to act on any of them. Instead he seemed frozen in place, not just with fear but with absolute despair and misery, as if those feelings - his own? Someone else's? - had chained him in place. Something was terribly, dreadfully wrong ...

And then James dropped the lamp onto the bed and Richard just had time to see that it was coated in blood before James was looming over him, screaming in rage, his hands reaching for Richard's throat.

\------------

 

Then Richard woke up - _properly_ woke up - and it was broad daylight and he was on the floor, still wrapped tight in his sleeping bag. Which meant he'd just dreamed the whole thing. Okay. Right. He'd dreamed he was fucked by one colleague and was murdered by the other. Oh God, he needed therapy.

"Good morning, campers. Wakey, wakey, rise and shine."

That voice. The last time Richard had heard it, it was screaming at him and those hands had been red and sticky with blood. _Jeremy's blood_. Richard heard a muffled yell, and didn't actually register it was his, nor that he had lashed out in blind panic until James yelped.

"Bloody hell, Hammond! What was that for?"

"Get away from me!" Richard managed, his voice shaking.

"A right little charmer first thing in the morning, isn't he?" Jeremy. Oh thank God, _Jeremy_!

"He tried to hit me!"

"Well, you probably startled him. Defence reflexes kicked in. Or something. Go and make him a cup of tea."

"I can't, because some cock got the electricity turned off," James grumbled. "It's bloody freezing in here, Jeremy!"

"Well, go and turn the electricity back on again! The generator's in a room by the kitchen. You remember where the kitchen is?"

"That would be the room with the cooker and the fridge. Yes, I think I might just manage to get there without satellite navigation, thank you. But the ungrateful little sod doesn't deserve any tea."

A padding of socked feet and the opening and closing of a door. Silence.

"Hammond?"

More silence.

"Richard? I don't care if you're not a morning person. You can't stay sulking in your sleeping bag all day. Get your arse in gear, please. I said we'd be out of here by 9.00am."

"Jez?" Richard risked a look. Yes, it was Jeremy all right. Dressed, conscious, not exactly looking at his most animated, but definitely, _definitely _alive. Richard wanted to hug him.

"What?" Jeremy said.

"I think I …" Richard stopped. This wasn't going to be the easiest thing he'd ever tried to explain.

"_What_?"

"Something happened. Last night. Here. I was dreaming and –" Richard stopped. Jeremy, his attention caught, had moved closer. Too close.

"Something happened? Would that be something ghostly?"

"I thought I woke up," Richard said carefully, "And I went to find you. And you and me, well, we … except I don't think it was really us, even if it was in my dream, and… and… do you really have to be that close? I can just about see right up your nose."

"Hammond. I'm a man of limited patience, almost none actually. And you're trying it severely because most of what you're saying isn't making any sense. You dreamt you woke up and went to find me. And then what?"

Richard closed his eyes. "We kissed."

"I don't think I heard that right."

"Yes, you did."

"We kissed?"

"Yes. And you're still too close, way, way too close. I can feel you breathing on me! Look, just back off, will you?"

Richard heard Jeremy shuffle back slightly. It didn't make him feel any more relaxed.

"Tell me, do you often have dreams about kissing your colleagues?" Jeremy sounded curious rather than freaked. Richard wasn't entirely sure that was a good sign.

"No, it's a first. But I was scared, and you were there, and I … well, I sort of wanted to kiss you. Which is weird because, believe me, I've never wanted to do that before."

"So we kissed. Then what happened?"

Richard decided to gloss over that. "Well, then we fell asleep on the bed."

"What bed?"

"I think it might have been the bed in the room where Rose and her lover were found murdered." Richard risked opening his eyes and found Jeremy was staring at him far too intently. Admittedly, given the nature of the story Richard was telling, he should expect Jeremy to show a good deal of interest. Even so, it was most unnerving.

"Oddly enough, that_ is_ the room I slept in. And before you ask, no, I don't remember dreaming anything. So carry on. We went to sleep and that was the end of it?"

"No, that wasn't the end of it. What happened next is, I woke up. That is, I _thought_ I woke up. And when I looked up, I saw James and … oh God, this is really sick … you were, well, _dead_, and James just leaned over me and started to strangle me, and then – then I woke up for real."

"And the first thing you saw this morning was James leaning over you. So you freaked out."

"Is it any bloody wonder?" Richard shuddered. "It might sound stupid, but it was so fucking _real_, I feel like I still have his handprints round my throat."

Jeremy edged closer again and, much more gently than Richard would have expected, tugged down the sleeping bag a fraction so that he could see Richard's neck. "There's nothing there. Does it hurt?"

"Only in my mind. If that makes sense." Jeremy was too close again. Richard should have felt uneasy again but, rather strangely, he didn't. Even more strangely, he felt actively pleased about it.

"None of it makes any sense, to be totally honest. But it clearly upset you." Jeremy put a hand on Richard's shoulder. He often did things like that - quick, random touches of approbation or affection. Richard was used to it. What he wasn't used to was the quick thrill of excitement that spiralled through him at this particular touch. Nor was the expression on Jeremy's face one that he was accustomed to seeing. At least, not directed at _him_. The last time Jeremy had looked so, well, emotional, he was bidding farewell to the Veyron in a slightly drunken, definitely maudlin haze.

"Um," Richard said. He licked his suddenly dry lips, aware firstly that Jeremy was getting even closer and, secondly, that he still wasn't close enough. And then Jeremy's lips were on his, and Richard threw himself into the kiss as if it was just what he'd been waiting for.

Jeremy tasted of toothpaste and cigarettes; Richard was aware that his own mouth probably tasted like sour beer, but then he hadn't had chance to freshen up yet. That might explain why it wasn't a very long kiss, and had only the slightest suggestion of tongues, but no way could it be construed as anything other than a kiss of a decidedly romantic nature. And that should have been alarming but, weirdly, wasn't. After a few seconds, they drew apart.

Jeremy looked shell-shocked. "That did not just happen."

"Absolutely," Richard licked his lips again - now they tasted of smoke, mint and Jeremy - and tried to suppress a shiver.

"There is no way I planned to do … _that_."

"Me neither."

"So why did we?"

"Because this bloody place _is_ haunted!" Richard burst out passionately. " And it's not the usual sort of ghost; it's some sort of _possession_. Last night in my dream, we were acting it all out again, everything that happened here. The affair, and then the murder. I look like Rose, so I'm sort of her. And you're Lewis. And James is Lawrence. And it might be still influencing me. And you. Obviously. Or else you wouldn't have … well."

Jeremy appeared to be seriously considering this. "That actually makes sense, in a barking mad kind of way. Probably more sense than the only other explanation I can think of."

"And that would be…?"

"That I really, truly, secretly _wanted_ to kiss you," said Jeremy, apparently giving this notion serious consideration, too.

"Oh," Richard said weakly, unable to think of any coherent response to that. He stared at Jeremy, uncomfortably aware that his own expression was the 'deer caught in headlights' look, and that Jeremy was looking deliciously predatory all of a sudden.

And then Richard was struck by a sudden, horrible thought.

"Hold on, if this is still some possession thing going on, then is James going to get caught up in it? Because last night he murdered us – in my dreams, I mean. Well, not 'in my dreams' as such because obviously it was a fucking nightmare –"

"There was actual _fucking_ in it?" Jeremy was either deliberately misunderstanding - which wouldn't exactly be a first - or he had put two and two together far too quickly. It was hard to tell if his voice was registering horror or an obscene amount of curiosity.

"Well, there was, as it happens, Richard said, shifting uncomfortably. "But you know very well that wasn't what I meant."

"Was I any good?"

"You were _very_ good," Richard said without thinking, and then winced. Too much honesty there.

Jeremy looked inappropriately full of himself for a man who'd just been told that he'd done an exemplary job in shagging one of his male co-presenters in a dream scenario. He clearly wasn't seeing the bigger picture here.

"James _murdered_ us!" Richard repeated with as much emphasis as he dare; he couldn't exactly shout it in case James heard. "And if he finds you sitting here on my sleeping bag with that, that, that ... _soppy_ look on your face he might do it again, this time for real."

"I do not look soppy. And how will he murder us? Hit us on the head with a teapot?"

"He hit you with the lamp. You know, like you said Lawrence did," Richard said, feeling sick at the memory. "Several times, I think; there was blood and … " He trailed off and swallowed.

"It was very vivid then, this dream of yours." Jeremy didn't look quite so happy now.

"Very. And at the end, not in a good way." Richard could only imagine that his own distress showed far too clearly in his face, because Jeremy suddenly leaned forward and folded him into an awkwardly vigorous hug. Richard had just enough time to register that being in Jeremy's arms still felt far more natural and pleasant than by rights it ought to when he heard a voice.

"I'll just leave the tea and come back later, shall I?" James sounded a little bemused, but not noticeably homicidal.

Jeremy slackened his hold on Richard, leaving just one arm looped around his shoulders as if reluctant to break the intimacy completely. "Ah, James. It turns out that Hamster here had a nightmare last night."

"Really?"

"Yes," Richard said. "It was very disturbing."

"Hmmm. It was probably not as disturbing as me finding the two of you in each others' arms." James's voice was still mild.

"It was way more disturbing than that, trust me," Richard said firmly.

"Richard was upset about it, and I was comforting him," Jeremy said. He sounded a little defensive.

"That was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you," James observed dryly. He sat down cautiously on his rumpled sleeping bag, placing the tray holding the teapot and mugs carefully on the floor.

"You were in my dream," Richard said. "You were a psychotic murderer."

James blinked. "I was?"

"Yes. You murdered both of us, me and Jeremy."

"I did? Well, I can't say the thought has_ never_ crossed my mind, but …"

"So, are you feeling at all murderous at the moment?" Jeremy cut to the heart of the matter with customary lack of finesse.

James considered this. "At the moment what I'm feeling is cold, and a little grumpy – because you did just try to deck me, Hammond. And I thought Oz Clarke could be an irritating little shit first thing in the morning. He's got nothing on you."

"I wasn't quite awake and I thought you were still a psychotic murderer. Sorry."

James eyed him. "Well, as excuses go, that's a novel one. All right, you can have a cup of tea, then. But there's no milk."

"We can stop off somewhere on the way home, get a proper breakfast." Jeremy's fingers were idly stroking the back of Richard's neck in a way that, oddly, felt perfectly natural.

\------------

Richard made his way to the bathroom to attend to the morning necessities. He shuffled past James on his way out of the hall, not quite sure if he was too ashamed to meet his colleague's eyes , or too scared. He decided not to think about it. But when he surfaced from the bathroom, fluffing up his sleep-flattened hair, it was to find James alone in the hall. And James was eyeing him in great curiosity.

"Um," said Richard. "Sorry. I mean about, well, you know. Being an irritating little shit."

"So long as you don't make a habit of it," James said.

"I wasn't planning to." Richard crossed over to his sleeping bag. "It just didn't feel like a normal dream - it felt more like I was possessed. That's why I was so strung out - in case you were too."

"Hmmm. So you thought I was possessed by the spirit of a psychotic murderer. Sounds to me like your dream came directly from all that ghost rubbish Jeremy was spouting," James said, adding judiciously, " And I don't suppose I helped any by harping on about the similarities between you and the late lamented Rose. Was Jeremy in this dream as well?"

"Yes." Richard decided it was better not to elaborate.

James considered the information. "I noticed you didn't seem at all concerned about _him_ being possessed. From that - and the hug, of course - I assume that whatever was going on between the two of you in your dream was considerably more congenial. And if I was taking the part of Lawrence and you were Rose, that makes Jeremy into Lewis. So exactly how congenial was it before I appeared and psychotically murdered you?"

"Quite congenial."

"As congenial as Rose and Lewis?"

"I ... oh, all right." Richard squared his shoulders and turned to face James. It was pointless pretending, and maybe James might have some thoughts on what had happened and why, which would be really helpful because Richard's own thoughts were in utter confusion. "We were _very_ congenial. And yes, that does mean what you think it means."

"Does Jeremy know about this?"

"Yes. He seems okay about it."

"Given the way he was hugging you and being all protective, that's a reasonable assumption."

"But he might just be a bit possessed as well - there's something really weird about this place," Richard said, running his hand through his hair in agitation. "Only look at _you_, you're not at all angry or jealous or acting anything like Lewis. So what does that _ mean_?"

James shrugged. "I'd say it means I'm not angry or jealous."

"But Jeremy's still, well, interested in me. So what does _that_ mean?"

James heaved a sigh. "Hammond, you're not normally quite this dense. It means that Jeremy is interested in you, you berk. Maybe this possession malarkey you seem preoccupied with only works if there's something already going on that it can fasten onto."

"But there wasn't anything going on." Then Richard remembered what Jeremy had said: _I really, truly, secretly wanted to kiss you_. Oh cock.

James was silent, watching Richard's changing expressions with one eyebrow raised.

"Do you think we were in denial, or something?" Richard asked.

"Not so much denial. You were both just a little obtuse, perhaps. All that bickering that verged on flirting –"

"It did not!" Richard said indignantly.

"And the way Clarkson looks at you sometimes."

"How does he look at me? I've never seen anything!"

"Well, you wouldn't," James said. "He doesn't do it when you're watching, and sometimes I don't even think he knows he's doing it. Did you enjoy kissing him?"

"What?"

"That was a perfectly straight-forward question, Hammond. So stop faffing about and answer it."

Richard took a deep breath. "I might have. Some of it. I mean, this morning it felt –"

James pounced on this. "Oh, so you kissed each other _this morning_? Without any of the 'Ooh-we're-possessed!' as a mitigating defence?"

"I don't know if we _were_ still possessed or not!" Richard scowled. "Now this conversation's gone in a bloody circle and I still don't know what to do!"

"Well, that would depend," James said.

"On what?"

"On whether you want Jeremy to kiss you again."

Richard was silent.

"I see," James said, nodding his head gravely.

"What? I haven't said anything! I'm still thinking about it!"

"Exactly. If you're giving it serious consideration, I'd say you're hardly averse to the idea."

\------------

Leaving James to clear up the remnants of tea and take care of the kitchen, Richard lugged his backpack and sleeping bag outside and found himself ambushed on the doorstep by Jeremy with something that probably defined the phrase 'bear hug'.

Although, Richard thought in a pleasurable daze, a hug from a bear would probably end with your face being ripped off rather than _kissed_ off, which was what Jeremy currently seemed intent on doing.

"You know, this could be a problem," Jeremy muttered in Richard's ear after a certain amount of time had passed in an extremely satisfactory manner. "How can we go on camera if I can't keep my hands off you?"

"We'll just have to restrain ourselves," Richard told him. "Married couples on TV manage all the time. Look at Richard and Judy."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Jeremy moaned. "Are you trying to make me ill?"

"See? That worked really well, didn't it? All you have to do is think about Richard and Judy while we're on air and there'll be no problem."

"Bastard," Jeremy said fondly. "Do you have any idea of how utterly fuckable you look with your hair all demented like that?"

"It's only demented because you've been molesting it!" Richard protested rather half-heartedly.

"Bollocks. You spend vast sums of money to get it looking that demented, and it's just begging to be molested. By me, obviously."

"And I don't even think 'fuckable' is a real word."

"If it isn't, then I just invented it. Come on. Let's do breakfast, and then go home and cut to the fun stuff. Your place or mine?"

"I live nearest," Richard said automatically before being overwhelmed by a moment of blind panic. What if it was all a mistake? What if it went all wrong, and turned out to be horribly embarrassing? Something of his apprehension must have shown in his face, because Jeremy was staring at him and genuinely looking serious.

"Richard, this is all right with you, isn't it? Only, I know it looks like all this has come out of nowhere, but I've been thinking about it and if I'm really, really honest with myself, then I have to admit that, well, actually, it _hasn't_."

"You mean you've always fancied me a bit."

"You knew?"

Richard decided to be honest. "No, mate. Hadn't a clue. It was James who noticed. He filled me in on it earlier today."

"Ah, good old James," Jeremy said. "So did you always fancy _me_, then?"

"Very, very deep down - and let's be clear about this, I mean so deep down it's practically subterranean - I suppose I must have," Richard admitted.

\------------

The baggage was stowed away in their respective cars and it was five minutes away from nine o'clock. Richard hung about uncertainly in the entrance for a moment and then reached up to the tangled prickly branches of the climbing rose around the door frame. Even though it was now November, a few stray buds and fragile pink roses still clung on as a reminder of summer's luxuriant blooms. It was one of these that Richard picked before setting off in the direction of the rose garden.

"Richard! Where are you going now?" Jeremy called rather anxiously and then set off after him, James bringing up the rear.

They found Richard staring at a plain black marble headstone. The inscription was simple: the name - Rose Lawrence - under which the dates of birth and death marked her pitifully abbreviated life, concluding with a simple 'rest in peace'.

"I don't think she was," Richard said after a few seconds silence. "Resting in peace, that is."

"Presumably not, if she haunts the place." Jeremy moved to stand close to Richard.

"Maybe she couldn't rest in peace until she'd interfered for the better in the sex lives of some lovelorn motoring journalists. Because I gather that's a common motive behind many hauntings," James murmured facetiously.

"Well, maybe all she wanted was for others to get some of the happiness she'd had taken away from her," Richard said, feeling slightly defensive. "And, unlikely as it sounds, we were just the first suitable people who happened along."

"And what about now?" Jeremy reached for Richard's hand and squeezed it. "Do you think she's resting any more peacefully?"

"I hope so," Richard said fervently.

"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts, Jeremy," James said. "Changed your mind?"

"Maybe." Jeremy was watching Richard, but he now turned and shrugged sheepishly at James. "I suppose I have been known to be wrong every once in a while."

"True. Not even the great Jeremy Clarkson can be perfect all the time."

Richard was aware of their banter, but he wasn't really listening. For a moment, the world around him receded and all was calm and still. He stooped and gently laid the fading rose at the foot of the gravestone.

"Sleep well, Rose," he whispered. "And thank you."

Richard saw nothing, heard nothing, but just for a moment there was a soft scent in the air, like fresh roses, and a stray breath of wind brushed his face like a kiss.

THE END


End file.
